He was very far from darkness then, light poured and rushed into his mind, but if light is all you can see, are you any better than blind?
Slowly though, colours appeared. And then they became shapes. The shapes were moving, an achingly gradual movement across the white desert. It was impossible to be sure if they moved towards him or he towards them, but a conveyor had seemingly been set in motion and an eventual meeting of shapes and mind had been set into inevitable motion.
The scene flowed on, gripped by a glacial entropy and soon his consciousness could make out legs and heads and arms, and the colours were in fact the bright colours of summer clothing.
Some of these figures walked side-by-side, others alone. Some appeared adult while others, mere children. He strained to recognise them, but he couldn’t quite reach into the depths of memory to recall them, couldn’t quite see their faces.
And then the entire scene froze. A small boy in red shorts had halted before him and everything else paused. The boy raised his head slowly and seemed to regard this man entirely, though it was impossible to discern if the child had eyes to see.
With a grave, creaking, eternal shake of the boy’s head the scene began to reverse, much more swiftly now, yet solemnly, until the colours and shapes disappeared over some scant horizon and out of view.
Just white remained. Just light.
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